I lived, till the age of ten, in the bush, in a house my Dad helped build, on the edge of a National Park, in Wahroonga, Sydney, at the time one of the most outer suburbs of Sydney.  I went to the public school called The Bush School. I played up trees, under waterfalls, up and down cliffs, down tracks, by rivers. Basically surrounded by and immersed in nature.

When I was ten, the family moved to Tokyo, Japan. It was the complete other end of the spectrum. A sprawling, seemingly limitless city, brimming with buildings, packed with people. Electric, dynamic, pulsating. Criss-crossed by a massive, super efficient train and subway system full of an industrious, busy, kind and benevolent culture that was, in some ways, the polar opposite to my own, I found myself in a new playground of a new paradigm.

I'd always liked exploring, with my brothers, out in the bush. We would go for long walks, adventures, just the three of us, or with our mates from down the street. We would peg rocks, catch lizards and tadpoles, climb gum trees, leap over gaps in rock formations. Tokyo offered a whole new kind of exploration. We would cover ground on foot, by bus, by subway, on our bikes and on our skateboards. Then, later, by motorbike.

In the early years, Shibuya, Tokyo's zesty and youthful hub for fashion and entertainment, was where we would go to watch movies, play in game centres, have a cheap meal and peruse shops with the latest toys and gadgets. From our home in Nishi-Azabu, we could be there in half an hour. It was our favoured destination. It had a friendliness to it, an interestingness, an inviting accessibility. 

There was a wide variety of cinemas to choose from flash and modern to el cheapo dingy. The Shibuya Bunka Kaikan alone, housed four. As well, it had a rooftop game centre, a great bookshop, a supermarket for movie snacks (chocolate covered wheat puffs, coffee milk, dried squid and big fat, puffy twistie like cheese slugs called Karl - were the favourites) and a poster shop. Movies in Japan are always screened in original language with subtitles - a godsend for visiting westerners as all TV was in Japanese language. My brothers and I for many years watched one or two movies on a Saturday, then another with the P's on a Sunday arvo. There is no rating system (G,PG,M,R) whatsoever, so we had unrestricted choice. Watching Taxi Driver at thirteen was an eye opener, almost mind expansive. The same for The Exorcist, the Godfather, Lolly Madonna War and The Wild Bunch.

We loved playing pinball and video games and would spend countless hours at Game Centres. It wasn't till half way through our time there that video games were even invented. I vividly recall my first game of Atari's ping pong - a vertical line on either side with a bouncing ball between them. Green screen, ball accelerating incrementally with each return hit. Then of course, there was Space Invaders, Mission Control and Pac Man. Car racing, shooting games, Galaga. Still, we had an ongoing respect for pinball mastery and would alternate between format offerings.

Japanese people are very thoughtful and especially kind to children. At no time were we ever in any danger or did we come across any difficulty. We were all fluent in the language and humble and respectful in return to the people of our host nation. We always made friends with the twenty-something part-time workers in the game centres, joking around, and would often be rewarded with free games and tokens. It was an idyllic existence for three young Aussie bush kids. From Wahroonga to Shibuya - we were transported from the grounded dirt and big sky free style playground to the electrified, connected, built up, efficient, magnificent wonderland of the East.

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PHOTO: Shot by Naoki Leonard Fujita - a friend and maverick photographer and cameraman- who lives in Shibuya. See some of his amazing work here: https://leonardfujita.wix.com/imagemaker

I always wanted to work in the movies.

When I was fourteen or fifteen my father formally called me into their bedroom for a discussion. I was having a few issues at school - trouble with accepting authority, occasional truancy, playing class larrikin, detentions and suspensions. My grades weren't great, I rejected the concept of homework (they can make me go to school but once I am out, my time is my own), I chose not to participate in after school sports or clubs.

Not your ideal student, I now see quite clearly. But at the time, I was instinctively rebelling against what I perceived to be injustice and domination. I did not choose not belong. I did not belong. The rigid, intense, result-oriented system did not integrate well with my free spirited, easy going nature. Teachers attempts to force me to comply only resulted in a stronger sense of anarchy in my young spirit.

I wish I had been there, the me now, to support and nurture that young fellow.  He wasn't a trouble maker, not really, he just had a sense of freedom and fun. He truly had not interest in chemistry or physics class. He knew that studying those subjects, as well as Latin and Religion, were a waste of his time. I would have said - if he has to be locked up here, why not just let him do art and English, drama and choir all day. And a long lunch. Maybe leave a bit earlier. Come in a little later. Four days instead of five.

I know now that the me then, was essentially the same as the me now. I wasn't someone who was going to be changed or melded by a bunch of strangers. Especially not by austere, sometimes deranged, sadistic, even perverted, assholes.

In the few subjects I had good hearted teachers (English, Art, Geometry, French) my attention giving and grades were pretty good. I just found it impossible to tolerate bullies and dictators.

My father, bless him, was a very different kind of person to me. He was an achiever, he thrived on rules and structures, he did not mind following, behaving. I was, in his estimation; a failure. If not already, then destined to be one if I kept up with my rebellious behaviour. I know this because he told me so.

"What do you want to do with your life? What is your plan? What do you want to become?" were the questions I was asked that evening, at that meeting, which felt serious and important, formal. Both my parents were there but my father was leading. They were worried about me, he said. The school had rung again. (The truth is mostly I tried to keep out of trouble, ie, not get caught. And  mostly, I succeeded. The reprimands and punishments I received were a minor fraction of my actual infractions. So, I was actually, in my own way, quite canny and intelligent. I also was aware of having been selected for and invited to attend a special school for advanced intelligence children after testing. I decided I did not want to go, when given the choice, because I did not want to leave behind my friends. Regardless, we soon left Sydney for Tokyo.)

"I want to make movies", I replied, after giving it some thought. The answer felt right, in fact, it felt like the only possible answer with any veracity. At that stage of my life, I also liked collecting comics, listening to radio drama, drawing, writing stories... but I loved movies. They were powerful and captivating things. Enthralling. If I had to be involved in some sort of formalised activity - well, that would be it. At least it wouldn't be boring.

"Movies?" My father scoffed. "How can you say that you want to make movies? What makes you think you can make movies?"

Oh. I have to answer. 

I had actually made a few Super 8mm films by then, but nothing elaborate. I did not have any feature credits to my name... In fact, I did not even know exactly how the process worked - screenplay, rehearsals, actors, director, producers, art department - I just instinctively responded to the question with honesty and optimism.

"I love movies." I said. And do what you love, right? Wrong.

"Just because you love movies doesn't mean you have any talent or will ever be able to work in movies. It's a very specialised industry. I'm talking about work. A job. What kind of job are you going to be able to do when you leave school? If you keep up the way you are, you'll be working in Woolies at the checkout. Is that what you want?"

"Er, no." I replied. (Thinking: it wouldn't be that bad. Standing behind the till. Playing with the machine. Chatting with people...)  But I said no. And it wasn't my dream, nor my goal. 

"If you don't start behaving and doing better at school, you will end up nowhere, with very little..."

The meeting was adjourned soon after. I agreed to try harder. I accepted that my answer to the question of what I wanted to do with my life was not acceptable.

I feel sad now. If only I had been encouraged. If only in that rare, important moment, when I was point blank asked what I wanted to do with my future, I had been listened to, heard. Things could have gone so differently. Why ask a young boy that question then squash his heartfelt, impulse response? Obviously it did not fit in with my father's agenda and world view. It was not about my life. It was about his life. And about curtailing the disturbance that my behaviour was causing. And, just like the teachers I hated, trying to make me into something I wasn't.

That moment was a very long time ago. That was the moment that a father inadvertently condemned his son to a life lead with an attitude of underlying defeatism, surrender, displacement.

                 ------------------------------------------------

Cut to me at twenty. At art school. Living in Sydney. I still loved movies. A year before, I had been to every cinema complex along the main street in Sydney seeking employment. Just fill out the form, I was told by unenthusiastic lady ticket sellers. I never heard back, of course, from any of them. It was a closed shop. Those jobs paid well, vacancies were rare and often handed to friends and connections. Being an usher was considered working on the fringe of show business. It required wearing a bow tie and a fancy jacket, dealing with the public with class and efficiency. Nobody walking in off the street was going to get in. That much became clear. Still, I really wanted to work in a movie theatre. Better yet, a multi-theatre complex.

One afternoon, while with my brother and my girlfriend, perusing the books at the old Gould's book shop in it's original location in George Street, directly opposite Hoyts cinemas before heading downstairs to Crystal Palace to play some snooker, I had what I can only describe as a moment of pure, unfiltered inspiration. I was zapped, nudged by some energy, given a specific mission.

"Wait here guys, I'll be back soon." I said, and ran out the door. I crossed the street. Entered Hoyts. "I am here to see the manager!" I pronounced with premeditation. 

"Do you have an appointment?" the lady asked. 

"Yes!"

"What's it in regard to?" she asked.

"About working as an usher."

She checked her big red diary. Slight frown.

"You're a bit early." She harumphed and climbed off her high stool. "Wait here." She trudged half way down the corridor of ticket sellers and disappeared into a doorway. She reappeared with a message. "Mr Cesarro will be out in a minute."

Whoa. I can't exactly say things were going to plan, because I didn't exactly have a plan. Well, I did. I wanted to get a job there. But I hadn't exactly anticipated speaking to a manager. He appeared, beckoned me. We went in through some glass doors, then another security door to his office.

Suddenly, I was being interviewed for the position. My instincts were honed enough, from years of talking my way around a subject and out of trouble at school, that I was able, much to my surprise, to charm my way into an immediate job offer. I was to start in a few days time. Two shifts a week, Friday and Saturday nights, to begin with. I was to go immediately to see the head usherette, Laurel, and get fitted for a bright red jacket and receive a call sheet, instructions and a torch. I walked across the lobby, almost floating. I was nearly there. One final test to get through. The manager had called ahead, so she was expecting me. It all went smoothly. I winged it. I was in.

Mook and Bianca could not believe it. How??? Really? Yes, it happened. They were happy for me - and it also meant free movies for them, at least twice a week. And I loved it, too, even more so. I had accessed an environment, an institution that I had long desired to infiltrate - the dark pantheon of cinematic wonders, the arena of entertainment, manufactured fantasy. It wasn't yet the level of actually making movies - which was still my ultimate goal - but I had forged through the first protective industry layers of obstruction, using will and wit and temerity. I was no longer just a paying member of the public, I was in the club. On the fray of show biz. Movies were free, now - all you can watch. Not just at Hoyts, but due to a reciprocal agreement, at any and every cinema across the city. Not only that, but I would be surrounded by cinemas (seven), immersed in film, connected more closely to the world of my early predilection. Finally.

I was working in movies!  

I was thinking the other day, while walking on the beach about just how many projects there are that I have conceived or started but not finished. There are so many! Ideas come to me fast and thick and are never ending. The ones that come to full fruition are only the tip of the iceberg. One in a hundred or less.

There are multiple reasons for this. Timing, circumstance, attitude... Even if I was a hyper achiever, I'd still probably only be able to execute 5% of what I cook up. Sometimes I justify not doing more by telling myself that it's just the kind of person I am, my destiny; to enjoy thinking things up - and then letting them go. I do very much find satisfaction in the conceptual part of a new project. It's all so potentially perfect, so grand, so unrestricted. Often, I will have an idea for a book/movie/creative project that I will see appear in the public realm five, ten years later. I'm sure this is not uncommon.

On the other end of the spectrum, many times I have attempted to make things happen, to manifest ideas - and reality has just not cooperated. For example, in the late nineties, after studying screenwriting at UCLA, I spent two years full time writing screenplays. I completed a total of six feature films - one for young teens, a chick flick, a feel-good indie, a fantasy film, a comedy and a coming-of-age action/drama. After they were done I spent a year trying to get interest/sell/get funding for them. I concentrated mainly on the last one - which I think is the best and has the most commercial potential. I am not, however, a great sales person by any stretch, and nothing came from any of it. They sit in a box in storage. It was disheartening, I cannot deny, and yet, I did still get great pleasure in the act of writing them. Of course, I have continued with my writing and had subsequent success with radio plays/ comedic monologues and short films. But screenplay number seven is yet to be.

I have also written full outlines for a three character one-man-show and a grand scale musical over the last few years, but they, too, remain concepts - unreleased, not invested in, scribbles in a notebook. 

Sometimes, I do the work to manifest something and it is blocked at the last stage of realisation or snatched from my hands. A documentary about Bay FM radio station, Bliss Jockeys, that I wrote and directed was snatched from my hands by a megalomaniacal/paranoid producer at the very final stages because of ownership disputes. After a deal with SBS fell through, he ran off with the tapes and chopped them into segments, put them up on his YouTube channel as his own. That was a full years work. 

In 2002, after self publishing my first book, 'All I've Ever Wanted Is What I Know I Can Never Have', and getting satisfaction and encouraging feedback from it, I embarked upon a follow up, 'Karma Rama'. I spent the next 18 months working on it. Once completed, I fully designed the front and back covers, and got it print-ready in Quark. While I was busy trying to scrape together some money for a first run, my computer died. Salvaging it from the hard drive would have cost more than I had at the time. The book never happened.

All sounds a bit sad, in a way. But it isn't necessarily. For me the best part of a project is in the thinking up and the creation. What happens with things after that is a bit boring. Of course, it is wasted effort and disappointing when they get so close to fruition, but I am so quickly onto the next thing that I soon forget.

As an evolving creative entity, my lessons and greatest joys are in the actual doing of things, the initial spark, the first rendering, the birth of ideas. From nothing to something. What kind of somethings they become and whether or not they solidify a place of any distinction in the world is not where I put my attention.

My journals are full of things that could have been. Books, movies, exhibitions, shows. It's not too late. Some may still find there way back into the process. Who knows. But most of them are just part of a wild and zesty creative machine gun process. Benign bullets billowing in the air. With a charged-up and staccato-laughing genius/madman alone on the beach with his never-ending supply of artistic ammo, filling the horizon with new thoughts and concepts that take shape and form for a time, then, like the clouds, drift off into the ether, the endless blue.

I really should be writing here more often. Because everyday I have revelations and interesting thoughts, dynamic mini-conceptual-breakthroughs. And yet... and yet... I let them come and go and many go unrecorded.

Why? Am I being lazy? Neglectful? Some sort of sabotage? Not sure. 

There is a bit of laziness. Like - I don't need to write it all down. There'll be new stuff tomorrow. If it's really important I'll think it again... etc

BULLSHIT.

I should be keeping an updated log. It's my job. I'm a poet, a writer, an artist, a philosopher. If I become too lax in my journals, well... well... the progression will be too staccato. Some important revelations may be overlooked, slip away. 

Sure, no great loss to humanity, but a shame, nonetheless. For who is to say what is important and what has an effect and what that effect may be. My job is not to second guess those kind of things. It's just to do what I have set out to do in this blog and record my truth, un-edited, freely, unselfconsciously. Then, let the words do their thing, go where they will, be whispers or screams, be heard and hindered or ignored. Be laughed at or with. Not my concern. I am simply the conduit.

My life is lived differently to many. I am a solo explorer. I spend an inordinate amount of time with my self. I use the time to create art, just to be, to observe, to experience being alive, to witness and assess the human condition. I pay close attention. I am my own guinea pig. I am the scientist and the subject. A living experiment. Ongoing. So I must write the reports! I berate myself.

So what's the AMAZING thoughts from today? 

Er, I've forgotten. Ha ha ha. 

No, let me think. 

Today was about trying to balance the mix of inner world and outer world. As our perception, our concepts, our beliefs are the filters through which we perceive the outside world, every experience is subjective. There is no truth. Just versions. So when I go out, like I did today - to the cafe (flatwhite and new artwork!), to the shops (slippers!), to the beach (bodysurfing!), to the pub (poker!) - what I am really doing is using the existing structure of reality to comfortably fit into my idea of how I want things to occur. 

And I'm happy to report that, apart from not winning at poker, it was quite successful. I did notice that along the way, various small things did stress me out and as best as I could and as swiftly as I could I made an effort to quell these moments of unease. They were only trivial - a lady parking her car too close to mine unnecessarily - a guy at poker taking forever to shuffle as he crapped on with some uninteresting tale - as examples - but I noticed the mini spikes in my serenity and attempted to limit their amplitude. 

We all seek, desire peace and comfort. We want to belong. We want to feel at ease, unthreatened. This is basic. Beyond that we want some excitement, some joy, some attention, some love.  We're all the same. But different. Different needs and expectations, different perception and behaviour. 

All you can do is try and streamline your own life experience to best suit your true, individual self. And who is that? It's an evolving thing, of course. Be to fully know yourself, you need to pay attention. And more than that, you need to consider things and make modifications. 

Having said that, some choose not to at all. And that can be valid, too. Who am I to say? My personal quest is to find meaning and substance where I can and then share it. With a joke, an essay, through images or video. Whatever is at hand. 

Which brings me back to the starting point. The reason I need to be more consistent with this blog is because if it is going to be worthwhile - then it's up to me to make it so. I can't predict what will come out. But I can make the effort to begin with the first few words  - whatever comes - more often. And, so, I will.

I have awaken early this morning and not been able to get back to sleep - which is rare for me because I'm the consumate night owl / late riser. I generally love the dreams I have in the mornings. But today, no, there's a motor running in my stomach area and it won't allow me to disappear - even though I've had just four or five hours kip.

Lying in bed, a memory from school days came back to me. It's something I haven't thought about for a long time. It is quite a notable event from my formative years.

I attended St Mary's International School in Tokyo, Japan from 1970 to '78. It was run on the US system by Canadian Brothers. It was a high academic performance oriented, success driven school with 99% of it's students continuing on to university education. The boys there were the sons of diplomats and heads of foreign corporations as well as rich Japanese bilingual kids who's parents had returned from overseas postings or who were from mixed marriages. 

There are plenty of stories from those days, but the one that I remembered this morning is to do with a lesson, well a few lesson I learnt about how the world works.

Every year the school would have a carnival and as part of a fundraiser would get the students to sell raffle tickets. I was in year eight, about thirteen years old. Our class held a competition to see who could sell the most tickets, with a prize at the end of the month for the biggest seller.

During school years I was never really competitive or one to strive to win things. But for some reason I decided that I was going to try and sell more raffle tickets than any of my classmates. I liked the raffle books themselves: quality printing, a well crafted detachable serrated ticket printed on a sturdy stock. Each book had either twenty five or fifty tickets - I can't quite recall. One ticket sold for two hundred yen - which in those days, the mid seventies, was something like the equivalent of six or seven dollars I suppose. 

Not many of the other kids really took it on. Most just sold five or ten to family members. A few tried selling them on the streets to Japanese but it was not an easy task as it involved a lot of explaining about where the school was, what it was, what the prizes were, when the draw would be, etc. And also, convincing - about how it was worth it, how good the prizes were, how they could be picked up easily, etc

The average Sho was not that interested. I knew this because I took it to task and every afternoon, after getting home from school, I went up the road from our house in Nishi Azabu, positioned myself on the footpath outside the Azabu Zemusho (Tax Office) and attempted to sell as many as I could for the month leading up to final day.

It was hard going. "Sumimasen. Kujibiki o kaimasen ka?" was my opening line. "Excuse me, would you be interested in buying a raffle ticket?" Most people would not even stop. Japanese - at least back then - do not like their routines disturbed. They were on their way to the next meeting or heading home from work or whatever. Who was this gaijin kid who spoke Japanese? 

A few were curious. I had a whole speech, a self-devised, soft-sell sales pitch. But getting money off people isn't easy. Even if it was for a good cause. (Education of rich foreign kids!)

I learnt a lot about human behaviour in that month of arvos. The nice people, the generous ones, the kind ones, were truly magnificent. They saw things for what they were. A kid busting his ass trying to sell some tickets. They didn't care about the chance of the prizes. They cared about me. It was touching. The majority, though: indifferent, detached, uninterested. 

I remember thinking at the time - I will never forget what it means to be kind to someone who is trying hard and needs a hand.

Anyway, day in - day out, I slowly climbed and maintained top position on the ladder. A few other kids were impressed. How do you do it? I can't sell any!

On the morning of the last day, I handed in my final book of stubs. It was over. My fifty or sixty hours of effort would be soon paying off - with the imminent announcement of the winner and the accolades and prize (I forget what it was exactly but something desirable). I was a shoe in. Nobody was even close. It felt good to have achieved something with hard work and dedication. 

The final tally was done and the announcement was made. 

"And the winner is... "

I almost stood up and began walking towards the front, confident and proud as I was.

"Andreas Odermatt!" 

Everyone cheered and clapped. Andreas, a likeable half Swiss/half Japanese boy rushed to the front and collected his reward. 

Meanwhile I was gobsmacked, sitting up the back, silent and confused. What? What happened?

It turns out that Andreas, not even a blip on the sales efforts radar, had waited till the day before the end, then just got his very wealthy father to purchase 5,000 yen more worth of tickets, so that he could win. 

There was nothing I could do. It was a harsh and completely unexpected reality. All that work.... All that energy and effort...  for nil.

And yet, as the days went by and the sting subsided, I began to realise that my time had not been wasted. I really learnt a lot out there on the streets during those afternoons. I came into contact with many, many people. Some bought just one - a few bought five, maybe one guy bought ten, even. Those interactions, those connections I had with those strangers had an effect on me that  went beyond the value of winning the prize. I learnt about people, about humanity. I learnt subtle lessons from my wide sampling of behaviours and responses that would help shape me as a person.

Since those days, I almost always give to the homeless, to buskers, to people in need trying to sell small wares on the street. Something, however small, something given invites a human exchange and warm connection that is worth more than money. It says, I'm listening, I see you, I care.

Mwaahhh... right? A happy ending! Worthwhile time spent not-sleeping-in. Having said that, I think I'll have a wee lie down right now.  >wink<

How I long to be
Back in the mud

Splashing around without a care in the world
Because I know not of worry 
Or think much of consequence
I live in the moment 
It's all that I know for sure
And even that: so tentative and fleeting

A fast ride to nowhere
A quick taste of everything
A splash and a grab

Getting dirty
Squealing
Running fast as you can
Falling over
Jumping, leaping
Dreaming of flying, longing to fly, to fly

Breathing quickly
Searching for the next high
Immersed in nature
Surrounded by fire

The passionate and the quick
The look of longing
Feed me more life
Let me taste the new day's adventure

I wanna, I wanna
Not knowing if it's a dream
Or what it could possibly all mean
And not really caring
Ha ha

The last laugh never comes
The giggling fits
The squeals of laughter
Jumping for joy
Over a funny animal
A festive occasion on it's way
A new friend, a new toy

Not stopping till you sleep
And sleep itself, instant, glorious, nourishing
Dreams sometimes
But makes no difference
If the sun is out
You are up and running

To the river, to the beach
To your friend's house
Everything is living
And fascination is constant
Immersion, involvement
Just to be, just to be

No schedules, no expectations

Show me the mud!
And I will play
in it

Again forever

There's so much obvious, so much clarified, cleaned up, well presented. So much 'on the nose', easy to access, made to order, instant and available. 

So it's nice to stumble across things with a bit of restraint, some mystery, an air of uncertainty about them.

It can be a person, an image, the end of a song, the flash of a conversational segment as a duo walk past. 

These things spark our imaginations. They are like starter guns to our mental sprinters. We go with it. We make it our own. We don't want everything processed, damnit! We have our own inbuilt supercomputers after all.